I won’t tell her that, though. I won’t send her a text asking her to change the plans of her group based on my own ridiculous insecurity.
But it nearly kills me.
13
THE ONE WITH THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER
REN
It’s 3 am,and she’s still not back.
Not that I care.
Not that I’m at all bothered.
Annoyed, I roll over, raising my head to punch at the offensive pillow that’s obviously keeping me awake. I’ve tried all eight in the hopes there’d be one decent pillow in this overpriced hellhole, but apparently not.
Flopping down onto my back, I reach for my phone that I had haphazardly tossed onto the empty mattress beside me. It remains dark. No messages. No update.
Unlocking my screen, I open my chat with Cassidy, then stare at the same old aging conversation. I shouldn’t be surprised she hasn’t sent me any messages. It’s not like we do that sort of thing.
She’s probably too busy gawking at the fit young strippers to even think about me. All those muscled bodies, the young men who are likely fawning all over her not just because she hasmoney, but because she’s the type of woman smart men fawn all over.
This time I throw my phone across the room.
Because this entire line of thinking is pure madness. Not only is it stupid for me to be this worked up over something as innocuous as Cassidy enjoying a night out with her new girlfriends, but for me to then go so far as to talk myself into conjuring some duplicity on her part is complete unhinged lunacy.
And also, totally not my style.
What’s worse is I know how much shit she’ll give me if I so much as give her an inkling of my current batshit mindset. She’ll rub it in my face and mostly likely go out her way to make it worse, which will leave me with no choice but to remind her of where we are in our agreement.
Firmly and irrevocably entangled.
Not because I care what she’s doing or who she’s doing it with, but because we have a deal and there’s no way that deal will be manageable if she’s off frolicking with male strippers all night long.
Because I am definitely not jealous. Not even one bit.
Groaning, I contemplate punching myself in the face because I have obviously gone and lost my damn mind. Alternatively, I’m just entirely pussy drunk, a phenomenon I’d heard of before and always considered to be a huge myth.
The door opens with a low creak, and I freeze, glad I’m on my side, faced toward the door but away from her side of the bed. Though I would enjoy watching her figure out the other bed is covered in enough random shit that she won’t be able to make use of it, it’s best if I can at least attempt to pretend I wasn’t bothered by her vanishing act.
The bathroom light comes on, the faintest of glows indicating she closed the door, but didn’t latch it. Water running, thelow vibration of an electric toothbrush. Then darkness and the pitter-patter of her bare feet on the low pile carpet.
Silence.
No movement.
I strain my ears, wishing I was facing her so I could get a peek at what she’s doing. A low curse settles over the room, letting me know she was trying to sleep in the other bed, and is now realizing the futility of it.
A few more steps, then the mattress dips ever-so-slightly.
I hold my breath, listening to her pawing around the bed, forcing myself not to burst into laughter at the fact she can’t find a sheet or blanket because I stole them all.
“Goddamn it, Ren,” she sputters, her voice tired. “Give me some of the blankets.”
I feign sleep. I have no choice. To be awake and fully coherent would insinuate I had been waiting up for her, and I can’t have her thinking I give a single shit about what she was doing.
Or with whom.
